


When you're gone

by travellinghopefully



Category: Doctor Who (2005), The Hour
Genre: AU, F/M, Slow Burn, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-23
Updated: 2015-11-23
Packaged: 2018-05-03 01:09:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5270882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Song title prompt - Avril Lavigne</p><p>"Part ways due to circumstances and stuff and then they are having a hard time, chose to be together, consequences be damned"</p><p>If you watch the youtube video that goes with this song, the fic should write itself....</p><p>So, I have had this sitting around for almost two weeks and goodness knows when I received the prompt....</p><p>As always, I am a whore for comments and am pathetically thankful for any and all feedback</p><p>If anyone would like to be my beta....</p>
            </blockquote>





	When you're gone

**Author's Note:**

> I always needed time on my own  
> I never thought I’d need you there when I cry  
> And the days feel like years when I’m alone  
> And the bed where you lie is made up on your side
> 
> When you walk away I count the steps that you take  
> Do you see how much I need you right now?
> 
> I’ve never felt this way before  
> Everything that I do reminds me of you  
> And the clothes that you left, they lie on the floor  
> And they smell just like you  
> I love the things that you do
> 
> When you’ve gone  
> The pieces of my heart are missing you  
> When you’ve gone  
> The face I came to know is missing too  
> When you’ve gone  
> The words I need to hear always get me through the day  
> And make it ok  
> I miss you
> 
> We were made for each other  
> Out here forever  
> I know we were, yeah, yeah  
> All I ever wanted was for you to know  
> Everything I do, I give my heart and soul  
> I can hardly breath, I need to feel you here with me, yeah

Clara had been preparing this unit of work for months. The young man she had collaborated with from the BBC was dynamic, passionate and fascinating, the kids would love him. The places he had been, the things he had seen. 

Clara was captivated by him, she had been for a few drinks with him, she had hope for more. Then, she’d done what you always do – she had googled him – wife, kids. She was furious, she wasn’t the sort to do something like that, had he presumed she would? 

At the moment the unit of work was scheduled to start he cancelled. He’d received a wonderful offer, he couldn’t miss it, they’d send someone else, it would be fine, it was only kids after all, not as if it was anything important.

With that, Clara was incandescent. Everyone gave her a wide berth, staff, friends, students. It wasn’t that there was steam coming from her ears, but there might as well have been. Her eyes burned, her body language screamed indignation, her footsteps rang. Every student found new purpose and interest in their work, writing with determination, anything to avoid being the focus of Miss Owald’s ire.

It really wasn’t good enough. Clara had phoned, they were sending someone, a senior correspondent, a Mr Brown, but that was all they said. She left messages, he didn’t return her calls, all her preparation pointless. What is this one, this correspondent they were sending her was useless? Attempting to google someone with the name “Brown” was singularly pointless, although she did attempt it. All the possibilities seemed dismally old, although a couple stood out as dramatically interesting, with some spectacular postings and by-lines to their credit. 

If he was old, why was he still a correspondent? Why wasn’t he an executive? Or posted to Washington or wherever the most crucial news hotspot was? Was he a waste of time? Riding a desk ‘til retirement? Were they happy to get him out and send him to work with a school? Oh God, had he been DBS checked? Clara was adamant that the was not going to be useless, she would see to that, she was not going to let all her work, all her students work go to waste. They needed good grades, they deserved good grades. They worked hard, she worked hard (obsessively, compulsively). She was not a control freak. She looked at the planning wall for the topic in her classroom, post it notes, immaculate display, appropriate images, inspiring, thought provoking quotes. She amended her own notes, she reviewed what she considered to be the crucial criteria.

She left the school just before the caretaker had to chase her out of the building.

Her last thought, he better bloody turn up, whoever this Mr Brown was.

Clara rode her bike, she arrived early. She was always early. She checked with the secretary, she checked reception, she checked the staffroom, she checked her classroom – no Mr Brown. She was not prepared to apologise to the Head for a day off timetable for herself and her students, other staff to invigilate, months of planning, no, this was not going to be derailed by the man simply failing to turn up. She had re-confirmed with the BBC the day before that everything was still going ahead as planned, they had said yes. She refused to countenance the possibility that she would be let down again.

She would be able to direct him, direct her students, control the flow of questions, keep everything focused and purposeful. This would be successful. Clara repeated the route between the secretary, reception, the staffroom, her classroom, still no Mr Brown. Students began to arrive, she was pleased with their promptness, their enthusiasm. Two students set up to record the interview, another two to take pictures, everyone else to take notes and ask questions. Clara began ticking names off on her register. The secretary arrived with a message. Maebh wasn’t going to be in, she was poorly and she would catch up via the video – she promised. Clara would check if that was possible with the exam board. The invigilator had arrived. 

No, Mr Brown. 

All the students had arrived, there was a buzz of restless conversation. The inevitable requests for pens, wasn’t it possible, just once, for everyone to be equipped. Really how difficult could it be, were they really surprised they were going to have to write? 

Clara told everyone to stay where they were, they looked at her like she was mad. If they were here, where would they go? They had their phones out, she would need to remember to collect them before they started the write up – she spoke to the invigilator. The invigilator narrowly avoided rolling her eyes. She pointed at the exam instructions she had already pinned up, the conspicuous no phone, no electronics graphic displayed inside and outside the classroom. It didn’t apply during the interview or the preparation, but it would later. Clara tried to think calm happy thoughts as she strode off towards the reception for the third time. 

Please let it not be him. A tall, old, stick thin man stood there, fussing with his tie. Hair slicked back, giving him a severe, authoritarian air, a frankly retro pair of heavy glasses with dark frames, a three piece suit (good grief), thin lipped, humourless. This was not going to go well. She chided herself on judging so hastily, so swiftly, but she was a good judge of character and she was nearly always right. Her decision was that he was going to be a boring, stick in the mud, he was not going to go over well with the students. The day was going to be a disaster. Please don’t let them laugh at him. 

Lost in her own thoughts, he had walked over to her, sticking out his hand.

“Miss Oswald, I presume?”

She nodded, suddenly wrong footed by his determination and focus. She was the organised one.

“Shall we? I believe your students await?”

Please let this not be a disaster. He kept retouching his tie, Clara had to resist the urge to grab his hands and hold him still. She walked briskly, he strode easily beside her, keeping pace without effort. 

He appeared utterly unperturbed by the students, he sat easily in front of them, he nodded at the introduction, he said good morning, his fingers flickered over his tie. 

Clara had reviewed the questions over and over again, vetting them to ensure they were appropriate. Media coverage of world events with the specific focus of terrorism, it was contentious, but better than that, it was relevant, it was topical. The students talked about radicalisation, they talked about the impact on their lives, how people looked at them, how they were made to feel, the role of social media – all in all, the perfect topic, and, one that would ensure outstanding grades. 

She handed over to the students, it wouldn’t go wrong, she would keep it under control. There was always one, always one student, the rules didn’t apply to them. They were cockier they thought they were smarter, they were compelled to show off to mask their insecurity. It drove Clara insane. Do not let Bradley go off at a tangent, do not let him derail them at the first hurdle (she mentally castigated herself for mixing her metaphors). She fixed Bradley with a steely glare. He smile (that was not a good sign, not good at all) – he opened his mouth.

“So, have you ever seen anyone killed then?”

Clara would kill him. She had been qualified for almost ten years, no-one would hold killing Bradley against her. A couple of students gasped, they knew not to be crass, glib, superficial, and here was Bradley deliberately flouting everything they had prepared and launching in offensively, provocatively. But that was Bradley, all the time, a provoker, a needler, a stirrer, he thrived on getting a reaction. Clara could see him sitting taller, basking in the reaction of the class, waiting for Mr Brown to respond.

Mr Brown allowed a significant pause, regarding Bradley over the top of his glasses, his eyebrows raised, a faint smile on his lips.

“Bradley, is it?” (looking at the name label), “have you?”

Others gasped, a couple giggled nervously. Bradley wasn’t one to back down.

“Course, they show beheadings and stuff on the internet, innit!”

Clara knew he was deliberately dumbing down, that wasn’t how he spoke.

“No, really seen someone killed, been there alongside them, talking to them, a hole appearing in their forehead, the back of their head blown away, the noise, the stillness, the commotion, the smells, the emotion?”

“Well, on films and stuff, in the papers.” Less confident now, unsure, where was Mr Brown going to go with this.

“Let me ask you a different question, and don’t answer aloud, just tell yourselves, has anyone you’ve known, family, friend, a pet even, died?”

There were nods from some, she watched faces close down on those she knew had been recently bereaved. Oh gods, where was he going to go with this? The paperwork she had, had to fill out on this, every possible permutation and Mr Brown and Bradley were going to derail everything in the first 10 minutes. She tried not to anticipate complaints from parents, there had been enough already, the Head had backed her, the governors had backed her, but this? 

Mr Brown had again paused for a significant amount of time.

“How did it make you feel? Again, don’t tell me, just think?”

He allowed them to reflect, she could see them processing, engaging, or shutting down. He didn’t leave the pause as long this time.

“That’s the thing with the media, whoever you saw killed is someone’s mother, brother, son, sister, daughter, lover. Someone’s teacher.” He looked at Clara. “Their best friend, their date for prom, the person they were going to marry. That’s what never really comes across, the emotional impact, the devastation, the consequences not just for that moment but for weeks, months, years to come. How do you tell a little boy his mother won’t come home? How do you make sure he sees none of the coverage? What do you do when in one unguarded moment he sees everything? How do you help him cope? And yes, we’ve all seen footage where people are sobbing and wailing, when the cameras intrude right into the heart of people’s grief. But those lives continue after everyone has gone. The role of the media is transitory, once in a blue moon its transformative, it really informs, it really makes a difference. Too often its a snap shot, a single moment, that gives no idea of what’s happening, what will happen, the real consequences.”

He paused.

“Yes Bradley, I have seen people killed.”

Mr Brown took a handkerchief from his pocket and concentrated on cleaning his glasses.

Every pupil was silent, all were focused, all captivated. Clara indicated for the next question and the rest of the interview progressed without incident. Clara had been wrong (she wouldn’t say this out loud), but Mr Brown had been splendid, everything that she could have hoped for and more.

There was a short break. Clara escorted Mr Brown back to reception. She thanked him, she asked for his number or email so she could contact him directly if there were supplemental questions and to arrange for him to view the completed work and award a prize.

The prize was Clara’s innovation too, the prospects of grades a far too distant incentive, the immediate reward of a prize of cold, hard cash, gave a greater incentive and not just for the “best” piece. There were others, again supported by the governors, also the local paper, the possibility of work experience, perhaps one of the pieces could be published.

“There’s no point”, “it’s a waste of time”, were too common refrains, this, this piece of work, this would capture and keep her students’ attention. They ran a collective blog, they canvassed opinion amongst their peers, on the internet, they were encouraged to source material as widely as possible (not wiki), and no matter their personal opinion, try to avoid bias. 

The first write up went astonishingly well, even the inveterate time wasters, the champions of procrastination wrote solidly, purposefully.

She couldn’t have planned for this. 

Andrew Tyler, year 8, his dad on tour in Afghanistan, an IED. 

Everyone wanted the piece of work shut down. Too incendiary (and they had actually used that word), too insensitive, not appropriate. Clara could and did plead time scales, exam boards, deadlines – the school relented, but the local paper stepped back and the governors distanced themselves. The blog was suspended, all displays were covered over. Mr Brown proved invaluable. He called it namby pambyism, censorship, pure and simple. He considered the work the students had produced to be outstanding. He arranged for two of the students to spend time at the BBC, including Bradley – Clara couldn’t argue, the work he had produced was sensitive, thoughtful, imaginative, she was proud of him. She found the money for the prizes herself. 

Mr Brown had tried to suggest a less formal venue for reviewing the students work, but regulations didn’t allow for the work to be removed from school premises and Clara was a stickler for the rules. 

She had already logged all the grades, filled and submitted the paperwork – she was still devastated when her class experienced an “unexplained” fire, and unspeakable graffiti appeared everywhere. She had thought the students understood that the issues weren’t simply black and white. Issues became irrelevant in the face of someone’s dad, rationality was an early consequence. Clara empathised, but she was no less furious, and it was very hard not to take some of what was said personally. All the work was backed up to every conceivable medium, but she was still devastated, she still cried. All the exercise books, all the text books, all the marking, all gone – oh, she had the evidence but it wasn’t the same. 

Being allocated a dilapidated, draughty, ramshackle protacabin at the back of the sports hall was almost the final straw.


End file.
